


Forseeable Disaster

by Annide



Series: Filing The Holes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Murder, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annide/pseuds/Annide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never wanted to kill Magnussen. It was a last resort plan. He was afraid of the consequences of that act. He wasn't wrong, but he never thought it would be this bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forseeable Disaster

                He never meant for it to end this way. He had planned for this option, but he never wanted this to happen. Sherlock was afraid of how killing this man in cold blood would make him feel. That's why he was hesitant. But there was no other way. As Magnussen himself kept saying, all the information was in his head, in his mind palace. The only way to destroy it, or get rid of it, was to kill the man. Sherlock waited until he couldn't anymore. They were trapped. Police was surrounding them. Sherlock discreetly took John's gun and, without another thought, put a bullet through Magnussen's brain. Merry Christmas indeed.

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock was pacing around Jim's tiny flat. It was Christmas' Eve. Everything was in place to take on Magnussen the next day. He even had a back-up plan in case something went wrong. Call it a feeling in his gut, a doubt in his own capacity to deduce, but Sherlock had asked John to bring his gun, just in case. Moriarty knew all about the plan of course, and he thought it was a great one. He couldn't figure out why Sherlock seemed so nervous though, it wasn't like him at all.

"Will you come sit with me? Your constant moving is driving me insane!"

"It can't, you already are insane."

                Jim smiled and Sherlock joined him on the couch. The detective didn't seem to be able to stay still and kept tapping his fingers nervously on Moriarty's thigh.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm worried about tomorrow."

"Why would you be? Your plan is flawless. You go to him, give him the laptop, he shows you the archives, you destroy the info and if anything goes wrong you put a bullet through his brain. You are Sherlock Holmes, you are the smartest man there is, stop worrying."

"I might have to kill him. And I'm afraid if I do, I'll enjoy it, like you do. But helping people is what I do. Solving puzzles is who I am. I'm afraid if I murder Magnussen, I'll enjoy it and I'll want to do it again. I'm afraid I'll start creating puzzles instead of solving them."

"So you are worried because you don't want to be more like me."

"This isn't who I am. You make the puzzles and I find the answers. How would we distract ourselves if neither of us was on the side of the angels?"

"I won't let that happen, Sherlock. And you love puzzles as much as you love me, you could never stop solving them, you're addicted to it."

"I'm also addicted to opiates and I quit that."

"Oh yeah. Is that why I found you unable to stand up, next to a stolen bag of morphine last night? Because you quit your drug habit?"

"I don't have a drug habit, Jim. The morphine is medical. I got shot only a few weeks ago."

"If you say so."

                They didn't talk again for a while. Jim pulled Sherlock into his arms and started absently playing with the curly hair he loved so much. He wouldn't insist on the subject, but he was worried too. He worried about the effect killing a man in cold blood could have on the detective's drug habit. Would it be worsened by guilt or would the thrill of taking a life become a new drug to replace the others? They spent the remaining of the evening in silence, simply enjoying the proximity of one another. In the end, Jim had to shake Sherlock awake.

"It's getting late, you have to go now. Mycroft will be at your flat early and you can't have him wondering where you spent the night."

"He would easily find out about you."

"Exactly. Now go. I don't want to see you until you've beaten Magnussen."

"I won't be able to see you for a while if I end up killing him."

"I know. But if you have to be bad, don't let it be ordinary."

"Oh, you know I like giving a show as much as you do."

"Make me a proud villain, Sherlock Holmes."

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock had been locked in a cell for days while they were deciding on a punishment for him. He wasn't allowed visitors, so when the door finally opened, he hadn't had human contact since Mycroft personally brought him there. Sherlock didn't even ask to call anyone because it would have been too risky to contact Moriarty from there. He was certain the criminal would find a way to learn what happened, maybe by having Billy go and ask John, maybe by using one of his many tricks.

"Brother mine, you really got yourself into trouble this time."

"Oh, Mycroft, stop pretending you care and tell me what you've decided to do with me."

"You will go on an undercover assignment for us in Western Europe."

"Is that the same one you estimate will kill me in 6 months?"

"Yes."

"So you think I'm dangerous then. You think I won't be able to resist killing again."

"It's a thought that crossed our minds, yes."

                Mycroft seemed to want to say more, but he had to stop and swallow before he was able to get the words out.

"You know, brother dear, I never wanted things to end this way. I know you don't believe it, but I don't want to lose you. I truly care about you, Sherlock. And I don't expect you to respond to that, I know you don't have a clue how to."

                The Holmes brothers looked into each other's eyes for several minutes. They didn't need to talk to fill the moment with emotion. After all, what do you say to a sibling when you know this is your last day together?

 

* * *

 

                When Sherlock got back to his flat to change and pick up some things, Jim was waiting for him in his bedroom. The detective explained the situation and silence came between them for a few minutes.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tonight, Mycroft is waiting for me outside. I'm so sorry, we won't be able to see each other again. You deserved better than you got with me."

"You were perfect for me, Sherlock. I can't believe your own brother is sending you off to die."

"It's better this way. I deserve the punishment."

"Death? You're saying you deserve death for killing one man? After all those lives you saved? This is why I don't try to be good, see where it got you."

"Jim, don't. Please."

"No, Sherlock, this is unfair and you know it. You shouldn't do it. You should run away. Join me in fake death. We can do good and bad things together in secret, but mostly bad."

"I'm going, Jim. I'm doing the job. Maybe Mycroft is wrong this time, maybe I'll survive this."

"Oh, Sherlock, stop lying to yourself, this is too ordinary. Your brother is never wrong."

"I'm sorry, Jim, I love you, but there is nothing you can say to convince me to run."

                Moriarty pulled the detective in a tight embrace, locked his fingers in the dark curls and glued their lips together. It was a desperate kiss. The kiss of a man who never wanted to let go, a man prepared to tear the world apart to get his way. Sherlock leaned into it. He let passion take hold one last time. Jim meant that kiss to convince him to stay, but the detective was saying goodbye. The simple thought of their separation brought tears to Sherlock's eyes. The criminal kissed them away and, after locking his browns with the blues one last time, the consultants parted ways, never meant to see each other again. Jim went back to his flat, thinking how nice it would've been if Mycroft hadn't kept the details of the mission's location secret, how much he would've loved joining his lover there. Maybe then Sherlock would've had a chance to survive. Now, Jim's home felt uncomfortably empty.

 

* * *

 

                The first thing Sherlock did after getting off the plane was separate himself from John, Mary and Mycroft. He quickly made up an excuse, saying he needed time alone to think about what it all meant, and rushed to find Moriarty.

"What you did was incredibly stupid, Jim." He said, as he entered the small flat.

"Yes, I don't know what took over me, next time I'll just let you go to your impending death."

"You really are keeping your promise, aren't you?"

"I am a man of my words, my dear Sherlock, but remind me which one that was?"

"When you said you would burn the heart out of me."

"Well, you left me no other choice. And now that Magnussen is out of the picture, there is no reason for me to keep hiding and we get to play again."

                They shared a smile. They always enjoyed their game, trying to get at each other, flirting over bombs and tea. It was a simpler time, when all was innocent and no real feelings were involved. Before they fell in love and everything became so complicated. At first, they did go back to their old ways. Moriarty helped crimes happen or committed them himself and Lestrade was baffled as ever. Sherlock investigated with John and occasionally Mary, when her pregnancy wasn't getting in the way. It was good, but it didn't last.

                Late one night, during an empty stretch between two cases, Sherlock showed up at Jim's. What alarmed the criminal wasn't how high he was, no, that had happened regularly since Magnussen's death. No, what alarmed Moriarty was how distraught the detective looked. And not just that. Usually, Sherlock would go on and on and talk about stuff, or they'd occupy themselves doing things that busied their lips otherwise. But that night, he was quiet. He looked awful and stricken with guilt, but wouldn't say a word.

"Sherlock," Jim started, "did something happen?"

                The detective raised his eyes to meet Moriarty's concerned stare. He looked so vulnerable like this. Jim used to appreciate seeing him like this. Well, he still did. When it was part of the game. When this appearance of vulnerability was the result of the criminal's brilliant work. And this time it definitely wasn't.

"Tell me now who's the bastard that's got down you down like this. I'll find him and I'll skin him. I'd enjoy nothing more."

"Then go get a knife and do it. You have him sitting on your couch and, believe me, he's not going anywhere."

"Sherlock, what are you saying? What have you done?"

"I killed a man, Jim. This is what I was afraid would happen if I murdered Magnussen. I couldn't stop myself. I just wanted to feel that thrill again. To get this sensation of invincibility and power. And now I feel terrible."

                Sherlock's eyes were locked on his own hands. He couldn't summon enough strength to look at the expression on his boyfriend's face. What if this changed Jim's opinion of who he was and he stopped loving him? What if the criminal wasn't interested to be with someone even more like himself? Sherlock didn't want to see it.

"I'm supposed to be on the side of the angels. People expect me to save them, that's who I am. I don't want to be the kind of man who takes lives for the simple pleasure of it, for a distraction when I'm bored."

                He put his face in his hands and Jim wrapped his arms around him.

"We'll figure it out, honey, I won't let you lose yourself."

                They stayed silent for a while. Moriarty stroked Sherlock's hair to help him calm down. When he felt it was working, he finally asked the question that had been burning his mind with curiosity.

"Who did you kill?"

"Does it matter? He was a person and I put a stop to his life. Nothing could excuse what I did."

"Alright, don't tell me if you don't want to. But let me help you, let me take the fall for this. I assume Lestrade will need your help to solve this murder?"

"Yes."

"Then together we can make the evidence point to me. All the police in the country is already after me and you'd keep your good name. Everybody wins."

"Except the victim."

"Well, it's already too late for him, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"I suppose you are right, as usual."

                And so they followed the consultant criminal's plan and framed the whole thing on Moriarty. But it didn't solve the guilt problem. Sherlock started getting high daily and frequently spent the night in the abandoned building with other junkies. Jim tried to keep him occupied with crimes to solve, which seemed to help, but as soon as the detective had more than 24 hours between cases, he would become the perpetrator of a growing number of unsolved murders. Nothing seemed to bring any comfort to Sherlock and Jim was running out of ideas.

                It had been a week since Moriarty had last seen the detective when there was a knock on the door. Nobody ever knocked. Sherlock was the only one to know he lived there and he always entered like in his own home. But Jim was a curious man and he opened the door anyway. He didn't know who he had expected to see standing on the other side, but one thing was certain, nothing could've surprised him more than the sight of a disheveled Mycroft Holmes.

"Jim, I love you with all my heart, but I can't be you. Sorry. -SH" He read from a small piece of paper. "It appears my brother cared deeply about you. And so it seems only fair you would get to say goodbye."

                Jim didn't want to believe what Mycroft was implying. It simply wasn't possible. He followed him into the car anyway, because there really wasn't anything else he could have done. They rode in silence and none of them dared break it when they got to St Bart's. Moriarty followed the older Holmes to the morgue where a single body lay on a table, under a cloth. No one else was there.

"I asked everyone to leave. You are still a wanted criminal, after all."

                Jim didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the body. This had to be a bad dream. This couldn't be real.

"I'll give you a moment of privacy."

                Mycroft left and Moriarty found himself alone with the body. He approached the table, slowly. He took a deep breath before pulling the cloth off the corpse's face. Nothing could've prepared him for what he saw. It was Sherlock, as he had feared, as the note Mycroft had given him indicated. It was Sherlock just lying there, paler than ever, with the back of his head blown up. It was Sherlock, the ever talking man, always eager to show off his intelligence, now irreversibly quiet. His eyes were closed and that's what broke Jim. The realization that those beautiful blue eyes would never look at him again, that this face would never animate again to exchange wordless expressions with him. Never again would Jim hear that voice, that deep, wonderful voice he'd loved since the first time they'd met.

"I didn't mean it, Sherlock, I never meant it. When I said I was going to kill you one day, I didn't mean it."

                Tears were pouring down Moriarty's face, impossible to control. He felt somehow responsible for the detective's death, like his enjoyment of murder poisoned his lover until he fell in an eternal slumber.

"I love you, Sherlock, I always did. I'm sorry I couldn't make you feel better, I should've tried harder to help you. Oh Sherlock..."

                Jim laid his head on Sherlock's unmoving chest. He stayed there, crying, unable to get himself to leave. It must have been close to an hour later when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft was back.

"I brought you his coat if you want to keep it."

"Thank you."

                Jim took the coat and put it on. It still smelled like Sherlock.

"It's time for you to go now. And I have to warn you. I did this nice thing for you because my dear brother loved you, but you are still a wanted criminal, if I see you again, I will have you arrested."

"Of course. You won't see me again though."

"My people and I will be at this cupboard you call a flat in two days. I don't think I'm wrong if I expect to find it empty, am I?"

"Are you ever wrong, Mycroft?"

"No."

                Both men exchanged looks that expressed the extent of their shared pain. Jim squeezed Sherlock's hand one last time and left. He wrapped the coat tightly around him and went back to his flat. He'd have to find somewhere else to go really soon, but for now, he just lay on the couch Sherlock and him had spent so much time on, just talking and cuddling. Jim missed the detective dearly and for the time being, couldn't think of doing anything other than staying there, encircled by his soul mate's smell.


End file.
